One of the hardest thing about the end of any relationship is that you have a whole future in your head that includes all kinds of things: having children, rafting the Colorado, buying a new house, time with friends, growing old together. A death or divorce steals that whole future, and you have to build a new one.

That's definitely how I felt.

Seconding everything everyone said. There's nothing petty about your pain or anger, because there is nothing remotely petty about what you're longing for.

If it's okay, I'm still going to hold out hope that you become a parent because I think you'd be so very good at it. I think you have a lot of love that you could lavish on a child.

This, too. And not just love, but wisdom and courage and truth and steadiness of heart. If the universe sees fit to bring a child into your life, whether by birth or adoption or fostering or through you just being an unofficial auntie who is around and reliable when all the other grown-ups have failed (my new co-worker unexpectedly became legal guardian to her 10-year-old nephew four years ago, and says, "We saved each other's lives"), that kid is going to be lucky beyond measure.

Sending much love to Maria and sj. I hope this doesn't sound too Pollyanna-ish, but the way I see it, your stories both have a wide-open, unwritten future. I don't know what those futures look like but I am certain they both hold a great deal of love.

David, I think I'm the opposite of you at this moment. I'm imagining a future and I'm kicking myself for not doing something to change my situation sooner.

Ginger's experience parallels mine right now, though my realization has come in months rather than years. And now I'm pissed that I didn't have the nerve to do what should have been done. Which of course makes me feel guilty because I'm not mourning him properly or something. We were moving back towards the good place after his cancer diagnosis, but both of us slid into old habits and couldn't let go of the hurt. Of course, his death whitewashes a lot of that and I miss what could have been much more than what we had.

Regrets are a marker of a life lived, but I'd rather my epitaph say that I never wished for a different life. Right now, I can't say that. I'm beginning to think that happy is a myth.

Brackets for Maria and meara and sj and anyone else who wants them. I hate that I'm constantly skimming and then posting hastily, because I'm pretty much only here for my half hour lunch, but please know that I'm nodding along and supporting. Maria and sj and meara, may your parenting dreams come true, even if they take an unexpected form.

Basically, I feel like I'm a bad widow.

Basically, I feel like I'm a bad widow.

You're wrestling with the truth. Your marriage wasn't perfect. I gotta respect the willingness to delve into the hard shit, and sort through it.

You're an honest widow.

Remembering him honestly, both good and bad, honors him as a whole person, and not as some idealized version of himself.

It's tough because society expects me to be a certain way. Italian society in particular. And yes, I know I shouldn't give a shit, but I can't help but care just a bit. It also doesn't help that I feel like I'm living up to his parents' opinion that I'm a money-grubbing bitch who never loved their son.

He's the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last before I go to sleep, but I'm now seeing how miserable I really was. It feels like my second chance, and I don't want my husband's freaking death to be that.

Basically, I feel like I'm a bad widow.

Not to contradict your feelings, but you're not. You're dealing, and dealing awfully well from my perspective.